


When You Come Back Down

by Emerald_Pearl



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 14:29:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1308208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emerald_Pearl/pseuds/Emerald_Pearl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House wakes up from his "Wilson's Heart" coma, but to something completely different than he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Come Back Down

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: House M.D and all associated characters belong to FOX. Title is from a Nickel Creek song.
> 
> Notes: Yes, I have taken some liberties with medical finagling. I'm not a doctor, and I know some things might be iffy.
> 
> If it's in italics, it's House's internal monologue.

He wasn’t dead. It wouldn’t have hurt if he was. It was a hurt similar to the perpetual ache from leg muscle removal five years prior. But where that pain was concentrated in one part of his body, Greg House felt this pain all over, particularly in his head. 

He opened his eyes, squinting as the faint light in the hospital room hit his corneas. As he opened his eyes, he realized that he was almost completely incapable of moving any of his limbs. Besides the pain, residual stiffness had set in from lack of use. 

_So I’m about as useful to myself as a handless surgeon._ Most _excellent._

The physician part of his mind kicked in, attempting assess the damage to his body without being able to move anything besides his eyes, as well as trying to remember why exactly he was in a hospital bed instead of out on the floor with his ducklings. 

_Pain unrestricted to a specific area, inability to move most of my body, I don’t think I have a fever, but I can’t judge that very well for myself. There’s some kind of large lump attached to my torso. And…oh, great, at least I can hold my bodily fluids, but I can’t get up to release them. And here I thought I wouldn’t need Depends for at least a decade._

After a few moments he made an intrepid attempt to raise his arm, which failed. However, when he tried to pick his head up he succeeded, but his head ached too much to maintain that position for long. Next, he tried to move his legs, which proved a near-substantial success. It was then that the lump attached to his torso moved, making him jump inwardly but only twitch externally. 

He realized that the lump was a body, specifically a derriere, and as he tilted his head ever-so-slightly he caught a glimpse of a swath of brown curls. 

_What the…?_

He struggled to make sense of what someone with curly brown hair and a shapely rump was doing in his bed, especially his hospital bed. Once he recalled the only person he knew in possession of both physical characteristics, he moved his left arm a little, trying to nudge her to wake her up.

It worked. Lisa Cuddy, former one-night-stand and his current Boss Overlord, opened her eyes and rolled over to face him. Rather, her face was in his chest, but as he couldn’t move and she could, Cuddy moved over. As her face moved near his, her could see that her eyes were red-rimmed and flecked with red lines. He had only seen her like this on only a few occasions. And, discounting the Health Inspector’s surprise visit which almost cost her job, and his own mess of firing Chase and the subsequent backlash, the only times he’d seen her this upset had been the four times when he was in the hospital, seemingly about to die. 

_Fifth time’s the charm?_

He took a breath, about to explain everything, about to apologize, but she gently wrapped her arms around him, silencing him. She hugged tightly enough to be significant, but not so hard that she dislodged any of the myriad tubes connected to his body. 

_Yep, this is bad._

She let go, and he saw the tears streaming down her face.

_Very bad._

He tried to hug her back, but his arms hurt too much to move. He started to wriggle slightly, and she let go. Getting up from the hospital bed, Cuddy straightened her shirt and hair, both disheveled from a night sharing cramped sleeping quarters. She pulled the chair in the corner close enough to the bed in order to stretch. She grimaced as she sat down, rubbing her right shoulder, which clearly pained her. He watched, breathing slowly enough to prevent pain, but enough to gather substantial air for speaking. 

He tried once. “C-C-C-C.” Failure. But she did look up at him, concern narrowing her eyes. 

He tried again. “Cuh-Cuh-Cuh.” Failure again.

A last attempt. “Cud-Cuddy.” _Finally._ His vocal cords worked a little, though his voice, like the rest of his body, was slow from lack of use. 

He took a breath. “Cuddy. I’m. S-sorry.”

She frowned. “You shouldn’t be talking. Try to rest.”

“No!” He stopped, short of breath. “Amber.”

Now Cuddy looked confused. “What about Amber?”

“She. D-died. My f-fault.”

She felt his forehead. “Well, your temperature’s normal, but you seem to be having delusions. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m remembering why I told myself I’d never give you ketamine again.”

He tried to sit up. “Amber, she. She died.”

She shook her head. “House, Amber is fine. She’s awake, and she’s been asking about you.”

He slumped, if one could call a slight relaxation of the limbs a slump. 

_What the hell…what the hell. Amber is_ dead. _I diagnosed the tachycardia from the amantadine pills, and she died because of its non-protein-binding properties and lack of filtration ability. She had no chance of survival..._

He attempted to contemplate how Amber Volakis could have possibly survived, but no alternatives came to mind. So he did the obvious.

“What. Hap-happened.”

Cuddy took a breath and started to fiddle with her hair. It seemed she didn’t want to answer, but she did.

“Amber had a damaged liver and kidneys from the accident, and she told us she was taking amantadine pills as a trial run for a potential flu cure. But she had a feeling that that the pills weren’t working, and so we tested them. It turns out they weren’t actually flu pills. They were sugar pills.”

He groaned. She reached toward the nurse call button, but he shook his head a tiny bit. 

_Sugar pills. Of_ course _they gave her a placebo. Of_ course _there’s no real cure for the flu._

“Because her liver and one of her kidneys were compromised enough, she needed a transplant or she would have died. If she’d actually been taking amantadine, then she’d be dead, transplant or no transplant. But since Wilson turned out to be a match-” _Figures._ “-he donated a kidney and part of his liver, and she’ll be okay, given time.”

She paused, not wanting to say what was wrong with him. It was different telling a patient that he’d need surgery, or that he was terminal. It was different because, of course, because she so obviously still loved him. Despite his biting sarcasm and how he ticked her off, despite all the stupid things he’d done to endanger himself and his patients, and despite how he had almost died five times already, she still cared. She’d never given much thought to the part of the wedding vows she could have once exchanged. In sickness and in health. No, she never had thought about that part until now, when her day was spent worrying over the one person she to whom she would never get married, let alone pursue any kind of romantic relationship.

Impatient, he rolled his eyes. Noticing this, she bit her lip. She’d have to tell him sooner rather than later. 

“Your case is a little more complicated.” She paused. “You had a complex partial seizure. And a brain bleed. And you were in a coma for about a week.” She spoke quickly, hoping the sting of the words’ meaning would go away faster if she got the words out faster. “We’re not sure what triggered it, but I would guess that something in your memory of the accident from that deep brain stimulation Wilson suggested. And Wilson feels guilty, because he thinks he somehow caused this.”

She stopped, seeing the tears on his cheeks. She wasn’t sure whether it was pain, humiliation, anger, or any combination of the three. She gently stroked his head, and held a tissue to his nose. He blew, making the sound of an angry duck. She giggled awkwardly. His crying slowed, and she wiped his face. He didn’t want to know any more, but he had to ask.

“Am I. Going. To be. Okay?”

No longer needed as a nurse, she sat back and started to play with her hair again. “We didn’t think so at the onset, especially when we observed the brain bleed and the strength with which your head struck the floor. But now, I’d say a seventy-five percent chance you’ll be fine, but with the odd migraine from time to time. It’s going to take at least three months before you regain use of your joints. We’ve also shifted your caseload and notified your parents, even though we told them you can’t see visitors for a while longer.”

“Is that. True.”

She shrugged. “Well, no, not exactly, but we figured that it would be easier on you and that you wouldn’t complain.”

“We?”

“Your team. Old and new. Wilson. Me.”

He closed his eyes. “Thank you.” They’d done so much for him, even though they should have been royally ticked at him for firing them, or being generally abrasive. Damn Cameron, her faith in a person’s inherent goodness had finally been proven.

Cuddy hated getting emotional at work, especially when she was around House. It was ridiculous, really; he harassed everyone around him with seemingly sincere threats and abuse, and never before had she been as affected as she now was by the two words House had just uttered. 

Thinking that he’d upset her, he made another valiant effort to get up, but she folded her arms across her chest and shifted her eyesight from House, not wanting to look at him. He gave up trying to lift his arm, and instead slid his hand slowly over to her leg. His hand found her kneecap, and he squeezed it lightly. She started, and looked down at her knee before looking back at House. She stood up. 

“I should go. You’ve heard enough in ten minutes to make whatever part of your brain that hasn’t already been damaged spontaneously combust.” 

_You mean you need to get out of here before you lose it completely._

He patted the bed next to him with the hand already there. He looked plaintively up at her. “Stay.” 

She sighed, and weighed her options as she glanced at her watch. On the one hand, it was eleven at night, she needed sleep and food, and she needed to go home and change before her next shift as Chief Hospital Babysitter. On the other, it was eleven at night, the hospital was deserted, House was alone, and she would be alone if she went home. 

Biting her lip, she chose the second option. 

“All right. But you have to rest, and if anyone tells me I need to leave you alone, I’m leaving.” Cuddy removed her shoes, her jewelry, and her wrinkled oxford shirt, leaving a tank top and her pants on. She carefully got into the bed, minding the numerous tubes sticking out of House’s head, torso, and abdomen. She lay with her head above his on the pillow, and tentatively reached town to stroke his arm. She breathed in deeply a few times, and managed to calm herself marginally. 

He shifted his head slightly, just enough so that it almost touched hers. He had missed her, and not just physically, although the compliments he continually lavished upon Cuddy’s posterior were an accurate representation of his feelings in that regard. It wasn’t just that she put up with his occasionally outrageous behavior, although he gave her brownie points for that. It wasn’t just that she was the only woman whose intelligence and brass ones matched his. It was all three, and, damn him, he missed it. 

He blinked. This had to be the drugs. Withdrawal from Vicodin and ketamine, and morphine added to his system. It was a wonder he wasn’t hallucinating. He checked himself. Was he? He bit his tongue, wincing at the resulting ache. 

_Guess not. But this is one dream I could have done without._

Noticing that House was still awake, Cuddy tossed around a few ideas for coercing him into sleep sans medicine, and decided to sing to him. She decided on a lullaby, dredged up from her memories of winters spent in her grandmother’s house. 

And so she sang softly to him, removing her hand from his waist and gently stroking his hair. Slowly getting drowsy, her internally observed her voice.

_Simple, beautiful. Just like her._

He slipped back into slumber. After singing a few more verses, Cuddy noticed that he was asleep. She looked down at him, and smiled. He looked so vulnerable asleep, almost child-like. She kissed his temple and slowly nestled down into the bed next to House, laced her fingers between his, and drifted off to sleep.

Wilson found them the next morning, but he didn’t wake either of them. Truth be told, he thought, there was no better medicine for House’s head than the comfort only Cuddy could offer.


End file.
